


like you never lost a war

by dorothymcshane



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Love/Hate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-03-03 20:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2886434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorothymcshane/pseuds/dorothymcshane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara works in a bookshop while she’s trying to figure out what she wants to do with her future. The Doctor is a miserable former punk rock singer who's been trying to forget his past. The two of them hate each other, but maybe, just maybe, they’re also exactly what the other needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve wanted to write this for a long time, but I haven't had the time before now. I hope you like it.

Clara’s dad puts down the last of the moving boxes on the floor of the flat and then sinks down onto the sofa that’s currently standing in the middle of the hallway. “That should be it.”

   “Thank you so much for your help,” Clara tells him from where she’s leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, a cup of coffee in a hand. “We couldn’t have done it without you.”

   He smiles. “I suppose I should get going. It just feels so wrong, leaving you alone here.”

   “I’m not alone,” Clara says. “I’ve got Amy and Rory and John.”

   “She does,” Amy shouts from the kitchen.

   “Well,” Clara’s dad says, rising from the sofa, “I hope you’ll have a fun time here. You’ll be home for Christmas, yeah?”

   Clara puts down her coffee cup and flings her arms around his neck. “Of course.”

   “And just call me if you get in trouble or run out of money or …”

   “Dad, I’m twenty-three, not thirteen,” Clara mumbles with her face buried against his chest.

   “I know,” he says with a throaty laugh. “But you’re always welcome home again.”

   “Promise me you won’t spend too much time worrying about me,” Clara says, holding him tighter. “Go out. Enjoy yourself. Maybe find a new girlfriend?”

   “Yeah.”

   And then he’s gone and Clara’s alone and even though she’s twenty-three years old and not thirteen, she can feel tears burning behind her eyelids, but she quickly blinks them away.

   “Are you okay, Clara?” Amy asks her from behind her back, carefully patting one of her shoulders.

   “I’m always okay,” Clara says, forcing herself to smile. “Now, how should we celebrate our first evening here?”

 

 

They end up in a dodgy punk rock club close to their flat that John recommends. Seeing as he grew up in London and is the only one of them who's familiar with the city, the others decide to trust him. John is Rory’s cousin, and Clara met him for the first time today, but she liked him immediately.

   “We should play tourists tomorrow,” Amy says, taking a sip of her beer. “Do all the stereotypically touristy stuff, you know, before reality kicks in and we have to start crying over how expensive everything is here and how we won’t ever be able to afford our rent.”

   “Selfies in front of Big Ben,” John suggests.

   “Trafalgar Square,” Rory says.

   A smile tugs at the corners of Clara’s mouth. “Harrods and the British Museum and the Tower of London.”

   “Buy fucking ‘I love London’ t-shirts,” Amy says, spinning her glass on the table.

   “Sounds like a plan,” Rory says.

   “This feels so surreal,” Clara says. “I can’t believe that we’re actually here.”

   Amy’s lips twitch in a smile. “Aren’t you glad to finally be out of Leadworth?”

   Clara laughs. “I kind of miss it already, to be honest.”

   “You’re out of your mind.”

   “I know,” Clara says, before emptying her own glass and rising from the table. “I’m going to order another drink.”

   “Order another beer for me, too,” Amy says.

   “And one for me,” Rory says.

   “And you, John?” Clara asks him.

   “No, thanks, I'm fine,” John says, holding up his glass of orange juice.

   Clara walks over to the bar counter, a little unsteady on her feet in the ridiculously high heels that she’s wearing. “Three beers, please.”

   While she’s waiting for the drinks, an older man who looks vaguely familiar walks up to the counter. “You know my order,” he tells the bartender, a devilish smile playing on his lips, before he turns his attention to Clara. His eyes are dim blue and completely devoid of any emotion. “You’re a sweet little thing, aren’t you?”

   Clara wants to slap him, but forces herself to clench her fists and resist the temptation. “Trust me, I’m not sweet on the inside, and I’m certainly not little.”

   “She’s got a bit of a temper,” the man tells the bartender with his thick Scottish accent, still smirking.

   Clara takes the glasses of beer that the bartender gives her and then turns towards the man again. “I don’t know who you think you are, but fuck you.”

   She walks away from the counter before he’s had time to open his mouth again, still with her fists clenched. When she reaches the table that Amy, Rory and John are sitting at, the three of them are all staring at her.

   “What’s going on?” Clara asks them, putting down the glasses on the table. “Have you been gossiping about me behind my back?”

   “Do you know who you were just talking to?” Amy asks her, flinging her arms around in the air.

   “A fucking arsehole,” Clara says.

   “Didn’t you recognise him?”

   Clara raises her eyebrows. “Why, should I?”

   “It’s _the Doctor_ ,” Amy says.

   “Fuck,” Clara whispers.

   “Exactly.”

   Clara glances over at him again. He’s skinnier than he used to be, back when he was the singer of Kill the Moon. His unruly locks have greyed and he isn’t wearing any eyeliner, but it _is_ still the same man that Clara used to have a poster of on one of her walls back when she was thirteen years old with dyed black hair and matching nail polish.

   “I guess that explains his arrogance,” she finally says, “but it certainly doesn’t excuse it.”

   “What did he say to you?” Amy asks her, leaning closer to her across the table.

   Clara grimaces. “Nothing worth repeating. Can we talk about something else, now?”

   “What happened to his band, anyway?” Rory asks, ignoring Clara’s plea.

   “Their guitarist committed suicide,” Amy says.

   “Oh.”

   “After she found out that he was cheating on her with that model River Song.”

   Rory grimaces. “Sounds like a bad soap opera.”

   “He spends a lot of time here,” John says, “but he never talks to anybody except for the bartender.”

   Clara steals another glance at the Doctor, and this time, he catches her gaze across the room, his lips crooked in the same maddening smile as before, his eyes still as emotionless.

   And even though Clara expected her life to change, she never, ever could have expected this.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s been a long day and the Doctor is in desperate need of a drink, so he goes where he always goes, to the club that he used to work in back when he was younger, before his band suddenly was everywhere and he couldn’t go there without people asking him for his autograph and photographs together with him. Now, it’s one of the few places where he can go, as its popularity has decreased significantly and most of the people there are regulars who know better than to try and talk to him. And if anybody tries to, Jamie, the bartender, is always there to tell them to leave him alone.

   An unfamiliar girl is standing next to the bar counter, wearing a dangerously short dress and an absent-minded smile on her lips, and without knowing why, the Doctor breaks his own rule and says something to her, something absolutely idiotic that makes her stare at him with a burning anger in her dark eyes.

   “She’s got a bit of a temper,” he tells Jamie in an attempt to forget about that he ever said anything to the girl, but it only seems to make things worse, because the next thing he knows, she ends another sentence with “fuck you” and then storms away from the counter.

   “Fuck you, too,” he says, even though he knows that she can’t hear him, but maybe that’s for the best.

   Because he lied, he _does_ know why she made him break his rule. She looks exactly like Oswin did, or at least exactly like he remembers Oswin looking, back when she was alive. He saw her dead, as well, lying on the floor of their hotel room, blood everywhere after she shot herself in the head. Not a particularly nice sight. He’s been trying very hard to forget it, drowning himself in alcohol and smoking way more cigarettes than anyone should smoke ever since.

   Jamie reaches him his usual glass of whisky and he empties it almost instantly, before finding his eyes drifting towards the girl again. She’s sitting at one of the tables in the club with three friends, sipping on a glass of beer.

   Maybe the Doctor wanted to piss her off. Because he’s tried really, really fucking hard to forget about Oswin, and here she is, making him feel as if he’s been stabbed in the chest. Repeatedly.

   Then she turns her head towards him and their eyes meet across the room and he forgets how to breathe for a second but quickly forces himself to smile in the arrogant way that he always does, because it’s easier to pretend that you don’t care when you look like you don’t.

   “She’s a little young for you, isn’t she?” Jamie says, pouring the Doctor another glass of whisky.

   “Nothing wrong with looking,” he says, because he’s never told anyone the truth about anything for years. That’s rule one: the Doctor lies.

   Of course he knows that he wasn’t the only reason behind why Oswin killed herself. She had been depressed for several years, couldn’t cope with the fame and the constant pressure of it. But it was still him that triggered it, by sleeping with River behind her back, and how do you live with yourself after something like that happens? You numb yourself, that’s how. In any possible way.

   He loved Oswin more than anything, he always did. The therapist he went to for a while afterwards asked him why he did what he did, if that was the truth. He told her that he didn’t know. He always answered her questions with “I don’t know”. She told him that he was a lost cause. Maybe he was.

   So why did he do it? Mostly because the fame got to his head and because he felt like it was what he should be doing, as it was what everyone expected him to do. Apparently men and women can’t be just friends, so there was speculation about him and River everywhere in the press, even though they only ever _were_ friends. They still are. She’s probably his only real friend.

   Oswin walked in on the two of them in bed together. She never said anything to him about it and just ignored him every time he tried to tell her how sorry he was. Two days later she was dead.

   He didn’t go to her funeral. He couldn’t. Instead he spent the day in a pub where he drank until he passed out and woke up in hospital. Fun times.

   “Thank you,” the Doctor tells Jamie before paying for his drinks and walking towards the door, passing the table where the girl’s sitting on his way. Before he exits the club, he steals one last look at her over one of his shoulders. Objectively, he knows that she doesn’t look _that_ much like Oswin, that they only share the same general features, but when he looks at her, he still can’t see anything else than the face of the only person that he’s ever loved.

   And it’s enough to make him hate her more than anything.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning Clara wakes up to the sound of rain. She feels a little disoriented, at first, not entirely sure about where she is, after having woken up in her bedroom back in Leadworth for almost every single day of the last twenty-three years. The throbbing in her head after one too many drinks last night doesn’t help.

   Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she swings her legs over the side of the bed and walks over to the window, still wrapped in her sheets. The street outside is grey and gloomy, but the view still makes her shiver with delight.

   Amy’s still sleeping, in the bed on the other side of the small room, and looks so peaceful that Clara doesn’t want to wake her up. Instead she changes into a dress as quietly as possible and then leaves the room for the kitchen.

   John’s already sitting there, a cup of coffee in a hand, and he greets Clara with a smile. “Did you sleep well?”

   His smile is infectious and she instinctively smiles back at him. “I suppose so. Is there aspirin, somewhere?”

   John laughs. “Hung over?”

   “A little.”

   “I have no idea of where anything is, right now,” he says. “We have to unpack all these boxes soon. I couldn’t even find my toothbrush.”

   “I’m too tired to start searching for anything right now,” Clara sighs.

   “Coffee?” John suggests, nodding towards the coffeemaker.

   Clara pours herself a cup and then sits down opposite him at the table, leans her elbows against it and rubs her temples.

   “So,” John says, “who are you, Clara Oswald?”

   Clara can’t help but laugh at his question. “I have no idea.”

   He takes another sip of his own cup of coffee. “There must be something you can tell me.”

   “Well,” she says, “I’m twenty-three years old and I’ve worked in a grocery store for the past five years. There really isn’t much to know.”

   “You seem to like reading,” John says, gesturing towards the moving boxes in the hallway. “There were an awful lot of books in the boxes, and I know for a fact that neither Amy nor Rory likes to read.”

   Clara shrugs. “I suppose so. I’ve always liked stories.”

   “And what do you want to be when you grow up?”

   Clara hides her face behind her coffee cup. “Please, not that question.”

   “Don’t you have any dreams?”

   “I would love to travel the world,” she admits after a short silence.

   “Me, too,” John agrees.

   “You’re a university student, aren’t you?” she asks him.

   “Yeah. I study history.”

   “Sounds fun.”

   John laughs at the tone in her voice. “You sound like you think it’s the most boring subject ever.”

   “I’m sorry,” Clara says with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “It’s just not my biggest interest. But I’d love to continue my own studies, sometime. I just have to decide what I want to study.”

   “You still have a lot of time to figure it out,” John says.

   “I know,” Clara says. “I know. I’m just scared of that I’ll suddenly be forty-five years old and still as confused and feel like my entire life has gone to waste because I wasn’t able to just choose _something_ to do.”

   “Of course you won’t,” John says, and he sounds so convinced of it that Clara believes him, even though he barely knows her.

   “So what do you want to do?” she asks him. “With your degree?”

   “Assuming I get through the last two years,” he says with a smile. “Well, I would like to work in a museum. Or as a journalist, possibly. I don’t know. I haven’t thought that much about it. I mostly just chose to study history because I love the subject. I’ll probably try to get a master’s degree, as well.”

   While he’s talking, Clara’s thoughts drift away to the night before, and when he shuts his mouth again, Clara realises that she has no idea of what he was saying. The memory of the Doctor lingers on her mind. He’s the last person in the world she wants to think about, but the thought of his crooked smile and empty eyes haunts her.

   “The Doctor,” she finds herself saying, cursing herself silently, “is he always like … that?”

   “Well, he hasn’t lived the easiest of lives,” John says with a shrug, “so I guess it’s sort of understandable. But yes, there’s definitely something extremely wrong with him.”

   “What does he do, nowadays?” Clara asks him. “Other than mope around that club?”

   “I think he still writes music. He hasn’t performed since his fiancée’s death, though.”

   “They were engaged?”

   “Just about to get married.”

   “God.”

   John nods.

   “Good morning,” Amy interrupts their conversation by saying from where she’s appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. “I hope there’s still some coffee left, because I’m in desperate need of a cup right now.”

   “There should be,” John says, “unless Miss Clara Oswald here has drunk three cups when I haven’t been looking.”

   “You weren’t talking about the Doctor, again, were you?” Amy asks them while she pours herself a cup of coffee. “I thought Clara hated talking about him.”

   “I do,” Clara says, “but can you blame me for being intrigued by him?”

   “I suppose not,” Amy says, settling down at the table. “Do you remember the poster of him that you used to have on your wall?”

   Clara rolls her eyes at her. “Shut up.”

   “Did you even listen to their music or did you just pretend to like them because you thought he was hot?”

   “He _was_ hot,” Clara says, smiling against her will.

   “Still is,” Amy says.

   “Amy!”

   “What?” she says, taking a sip of her coffee. “He is. I’m just stating the obvious.”

   “Okay, thanks, can we move on to another subject, now?”

   “I agree with Amy,” John says. “He still looks better than most people.”

   “Have the two of you both gone blind? And possibly lost your minds, as well?”

   Amy smiles teasingly at her. “Go on, Clara, admit it, he does look good.”

   Clara just shakes her head. “He’s, like, fifty.”

   “Darling, you’ve always been into older men.”

   “Older men, yes,” Clara says. “Him, no.”

   “Well, I’m not into him, either,” Amy says, “but I’m still able to appreciate his looks.”

   Clara throws the spoon from her cup of coffee at her. “Pretty please with sugar on top, can we talk about something else now?”

   “He _looks_ good, though,” John says, a teasing smile on his lips.


	4. Chapter 4

The Doctor’s flat is enormous, way too big for one person to live in, but he still hasn’t been able to convince himself to sell it and buy a smaller one. It was the first thing he bought, after he started earning ridiculous amounts of money, and it meant everything to him, back then, that he actually could afford a place like this. He doesn’t like to think of himself as sentimental, but he supposes he is.

   River often stays over, but she has her own life, as well, and the Doctor knows it wouldn’t be fair of him to ask her to spend all of her time together with him. After she stopped working as a model, she went back to school, and nowadays she’s an archaeologist. The Doctor couldn’t be prouder of her for following her dreams. And even though she’s never been married, she’s got a girlfriend, Missy, whom she’s been together with for almost eight years, now.

   The Doctor drinks three cups of coffee while he reads the newspaper. He desperately wants to have a cigarette, as well, but he’s been trying to stop smoking, so he forces himself not to think about it. He gets dressed in his usual black jumper with holes in it and black jeans, and then there are fifteen hours left of the day, and he doesn’t really know what to do with any of them.

   He reads a lot, nowadays. Mostly crime novels and science fiction. He spends a lot of time on cooking so called healthy food for himself. He likes cooking. You don’t have to think about anything else when you’re focusing on how many decilitres of flour there should be in spaghetti. And, well, he writes songs. Most of them are terrible, but now and then, he sells a couple, usually to new and upcoming indie rock bands that he feels are worthy of more attention.

   He sits down in front of his grand piano and places his hands on its keys. They feel cold against his fingers. He’s not in the mood for playing, but merely sitting there relaxes all the muscles in his body. Sometimes, it feels like it’s the only place where he can breathe.

   The girl from the night before still haunts his mind, no matter how badly he wants to forget her, no matter how much he wants to pretend that she doesn’t. He kind of wants to see her again, just so that he can take another look at her and confirm to himself that she really doesn’t look that much like Oswin.

   The doorbell rings and the Doctor is up on his feet in less than a second. He’s not wearing any socks, as he wasn’t expecting any visitors, but he doesn’t feel like walking up and down the stairs again just to fetch something to wear on his feet. He opens the door to find River and Missy behind it, because of course it's them, who else would it be?

   “Hello, sweetie,” River greets him, kissing him on the cheeks. “Now, before you say anything, I _know_ you would love to stay inside and sulk all day, but we won’t let you. Not today.”

   “What’s so special about today?” the Doctor asks her, but he already knows that she’s won. He would follow her and Missy anywhere. Not without protesting, of course, but he knows that the two of them both know that he never means it when he tells them to leave him alone.

   Missy hands him a gift wrapped in dark red paper. “Now, I know you’re terrible with dates, but really, you must remember that it’s your birthday today.”

   The Doctor just stares at her.

   “I told you he wouldn’t,” River says. “He never does. You should know that by now.”

   Missy shakes her head. “I really thought he would, after last year, but he’s fucking hopeless.”

   She’s right, last year was memorable (River and Missy made him go on a treasure hunt all over London and somehow it ended with him waking up in a unfamiliar staircase with glitter in his hair and no shoes), but he’s never understood why people are so obsessed with celebrating birthdays. They’re basically just reminders of that you’re one year closer to dying, aren’t they?

   “Get dressed, now, we’ve got a long day ahead of us,” River tells him, gesturing towards his hallway. “Wear your polka dot shirt and your magician coat.”

   The Doctor sighs. “People always recognise me more when I wear that coat.”

   “Don’t, then,” she says, “but don’t you dare wear that fucking jumper. I’m going to throw it in the bin, any day now, if you keep wearing it. God knows it already looks like it belongs there.”

   “Thank you for the compliment,” the Doctor mutters.

   “I like your jumper,” Missy says.

   “No, you don’t,” River says. “You just like disagreeing with me. Why are you still standing here, Doctor?”

   He rolls his eyes at her. “Shut up, I’m on my way. I’ll even wear my magician coat. Happy?”

   “Very,” River says, a grin on her lips.


	5. Chapter 5

Clara, Amy, Rory and John get off the tube at Westminster station, none of them dressed for the rainy weather, and soon they’re all soaking wet. Amy insists on taking several dozens of pictures of them in front of Big Ben and gets annoyed with the others when they refuse to smile and make grimaces at her camera instead.

   Clara leans against one of the railings of the bridge and looks down into the water while the others throw teasing insults at each other in the background.

   “So,” Amy says, hugging Clara from behind, “you up for a ride in the London eye?”

   “You know I’m afraid of heights,” Clara says, but there’s a smile playing on her lips.

   “No, you’re not.”

   “Yes, I am.”

   “Rory and John both refuse to come with me and I don’t want to go alone,” Amy says.

   “Well, you don’t have to go, do you?” Clara says, but she already knows she’s lost the fight.

   “Please,” Amy whispers in one of Clara’s ears. “For me?”

   “You’re terrible.”

   “I know,” she says, before her face breaks into a smile and she skips back towards Rory and John. “Clara’s coming with me. Blame yourselves for missing out on all the fun.”

   Clara and Amy abandon Rory and John at a café close to the London eye and then go to buy tickets, sipping on a cup of coffee each from the café.

   “So,” Amy says, “I suppose you’re going to start looking for jobs, tomorrow?”

   Clara shrugs. “Yeah. You’re lucky, who won’t have to deal with all of that.”

   Amy’s worked as a part-time model for several years and is already scheduled for several photo shoots and a television commercial. It’s no wonder, really, seeing as she’s absolutely gorgeous, with her porcelain skin and messy red hair.

   “I am,” Amy admits, looking down at her feet, and then takes a deep breath before she opens her mouth again. “It doesn’t feel like I’m worth it, you know? Like I should get a ‘real’ job instead and stop pretending I’m something that I’m not.”

   “What, you’d rather work in a pub somewhere?” Clara says with a smile. “Have to mop up vomit and get hit on by gross old men?”

   Amy laughs. “Okay, maybe not.”

   “So enjoy it,” Clara says. “While it lasts. You _are_ worth it.”

 

  
Clara sits down on the bench in one of the capsules of the London eye while Amy decides to stand next to one of its floor-to-ceiling windows with her camera in her hands.

   “Stalking me, are you?” a Scottish voice asks Clara in the next moment and very nearly stops her heart.

   Clara turns her head towards the voice, staring at the Doctor for several seconds before she manages to open her mouth. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

   He gives her a maddening Cheshire cat grin. “The standard greeting.”

   “I’m serious,” Clara says.

   “Me too.”

   “Is that the coat you used to wear all the bloody time?” Clara can’t help but ask him, still with her eyes at him. His grey locks are tousled and he’s dressed in a polka dot shirt and a coat that looks very much like his iconic magician coat.

   The Doctor grimaces. “Don’t say anything about it.”

   “I’m not saying anything.”

   “Who’s this?” a vaguely familiar woman sitting next to the Doctor interrupts their conversation by asking, her eyes focused on Clara.

   “Nobody,” the Doctor says.

   “I have a name, you know,” Clara says, her tone venomous.

   “Doesn’t matter. I don’t need it.”

   “Don’t mind him,” the woman says. “He’s always like this.”

   “Like _what_?” the Doctor spits.

   “You’re River,” Clara says, finally realising from where she knows the face of the woman. She can almost feel the blood draining from her face. “River Song.”

   “That’s my name, yes,” River says. “And this is my girlfriend Missy.”

   The dark-haired woman next to her leans forwards to give Clara a smile. Her smile falters when her gaze falls on Clara, though. “You aren’t … you can’t be … can you?”

   “I didn’t want to say anything, but the resemblance is uncanny,” River says.

   “What are you talking about?” Clara asks them, casting a glance at Amy over her shoulder. Amy’s still staring out through the windows, though, and doesn’t even look back at Clara.

   “She doesn’t look _that_ much like her,” the Doctor protests.

   “Yeah, right,” River says.

   Clara irritably waves her hands at them. “Can you please stop talking over my head and just tell me what’s going on?”

   “What are you doing here, anyway?” the Doctor asks her.

   “Stalking you,” Clara says, her voice dripping of sarcasm. “Like you said. Because obviously I don’t have anything better to do with my time.”

   “I like her,” Missy decides.

   “Clara,” Clara says. “My name is Clara.”

   “We’re celebrating this old grump’s birthday,” River says, nodding towards the Doctor.

   “By torturing me,” the Doctor says.

   River sighs dramatically. “He’s never been up in the London eye before. Or done anything even remotely touristy in this city.”

   “You don’t have to tell her my whole life story, you know.”

   “How do the two of you know each other, anyway?” Missy asks them.

   “We don’t,” Clara says.

   “We don’t,” the Doctor agrees.

   That’s when Amy turns around to say something to Clara. Her mouth freezes when she notices the persons sitting next to her, though. “Oh. My. God.”

   “Breathe, Amy,” Clara tells her. “Breathing is good.”

   “Breathing is good,” Amy echoes, her voice slightly shaky. “Yes.”

   “You look a little pale, dear,” River says. “I think you should sit down.”

   “Probably,” Amy agrees, and then hesitates for a few seconds before she crosses the floor of the capsule to sink down next to Clara on the bench. “Clara, would you mind telling me what’s going on?”

   “We’re stuck in a capsule of the London eye together with the Doctor, River Song and her girlfriend Missy,” Clara says. “They’re celebrating the Doctor’s birthday by showing him the touristy side of London.” She turns around to the Doctor, River and Missy. “Do any of you have anything to add?”

   “No, I think that about sums it up,” River says.

   “Okay,” Amy says, taking a trembling breath.


	6. Chapter 6

The Doctor is trapped in a capsule of the London Eye together with the ghost of Oswin, or Clara, as she’s apparently called, and god knows he’s had many birthdays that he’d rather not remember, but he’s pretty sure of that this one’s already the worst. Judging by River and Missy’s reactions, he doesn’t seem to have imagined the likeness between Oswin and Clara, either. He can’t help but wonder what the hell he’s done to deserve this. He’s never going to leave his house again, if this is what happens when he does. Yes. That sounds like a good plan.

   Clara’s red-haired friend is telling the others some story about the first time she visited London on her own for some sketchy modelling job, but the Doctor isn’t really listening. He’s too busy avoiding looking at Clara by staring at the city outside of the capsule, fumbling with the old packet of cigarettes in one of the pockets of his coat. He should throw it away, he knows he should, but just knowing that it’s there calms his heart rate.

   “What are you thinking about?” a voice asks him, _her_ voice, and he flinches.

   “What makes you think I have any interest in talking to you?”

   “What made you think I had any interest in talking to you last night?” she spits. “The fact that you were famous, like, twenty years ago?”

   And the Doctor must admit that that hurts, even though it’s true. Or, well, possibly exactly _because_ it’s true.

   “You don’t have to answer my question,” Clara continues, her tone more composed, “but don’t fucking treat me like you’re too good for me.”

   “I don’t ... I don’t think that,” the Doctor says, still not looking at her.

   “Then stop acting like it.”

   He hasn’t met anyone who’s stood up to him like Clara in years. Usually people just accept that he’s insufferable and let him be without bothering to comment on his behaviour or give him any comebacks. He hates it, how she seems to see through all his façades, how she refuses to let his behaviour affect her. “Why don’t you just go fuck yourself?”

   “Fine,” she says with a shrug, and for some reason, her nonchalance makes him even more infuriated than her biting remarks.

   Fuck, just being around her is exhausting.

   “You were right,” he finally says, just because he can’t stand her silence, can’t stand her sitting next to him, so close to her that their legs are very nearly touching, without saying anything. “I shouldn’t have talked to you, last night.”

   “So that this wouldn’t have been this awkward, you mean,” Clara says, her gaze still fixed on the city underneath them.

   “No. Well, yes. But what I said to you back then wasn’t acceptable.”

   She raises an eyebrow, obviously challenging him. “And what you just said to me?”

   “Not the same.”

   He thinks he can see a smile playing on her lips. “Yeah?”

   “Oh, shut up,” the Doctor tells her.

   “Stop flirting with the poor girl,” River interrupts them, placing a hand on the Doctor’s knee.

   The Doctor glares at her. “I’m not flirting! This is ... this is not flirting!”

   A grin spreads across River’s face. “Are you absolutely sure?”

   “ _Yes_!”

   “No need to be so defensive, I get the hint,” Clara says. “You’re not interested. And I’m not interested in you, so, that’s perfectly fine.”

   “You’re too young for me, anyway,” the Doctor says, not sure about why he suddenly cares about what she thinks about him.

   “Exactly,” Clara says, before letting her lips fall open, and the Doctor really, probably shouldn’t linger with his gaze on them in the way that he does. “Wow, did we just agree about something?”

   “Clearly a mistake,” the Doctor says.

   River grimaces at the two of them, but thankfully, she doesn’t say anything more, but turns her attention back to Missy and Clara’s friend’s conversation, which has moved on to the topic of some science fiction television series that they’ve discovered that they both watch religiously.

   “So, I suppose I should wish you happy birthday,” Clara surprises the Doctor by saying.

   “You don’t have to,” the Doctor says, “and most definitely not in order to seem polite. I already know you’re not.”

   Clara rolls her eyes at him. “Thanks a lot. I’m actually really nice, you know. Just not to people who don’t deserve it.”

   A corner of the Doctor’s mouth twitches. “And I don’t?”

   “Not so far, you don’t.”

   “Fair enough.”

   “Happy birthday, anyway,” she says, nudging his foot, and he nudges her foot back, and then they both end up smiling, but quickly hide their smiles from each other.

 

 

“She looks exactly like Oswin,” River says when they’ve gotten out of the capsule, Clara and her friend have disappeared, and the Doctor finally can breathe again. It’s pouring down rain outside, and the Doctor, River and Missy are walking over Westminster Bridge, River watching him with curiosity in her eyes. “They’re not related, are they?”

   “I don’t know her,” the Doctor says, looking down at his feet. “I have no idea.”

   “Don’t you think it’s a weird coincidence? Like the universe is trying to tell you something?”

   “I don’t believe in second chances,” is all he says, because he doesn’t, and whether Clara is related to Oswin or not, she’s not her, and she never will be, so there’s no use in pretending that any of this means anything more than that there exists a woman who happens to look eerily much like her and that the Doctor’s happened to run into her two days in a row.

   “I’m not saying it’s a second chance,” River says. “I’m just saying that it’s ... something. She’s something. Don’t mess it up, okay?”

   “River, there’s honestly nothing to mess up.”

   “Not yet.”

   The Doctor doesn’t know what to say about that, so in the end, he doesn’t say anything at all. Soon, River and Missy start discussing where they should go out, that evening, while the Doctor sinks back into his thoughts, like he always does.

   And he doesn’t know what, but he knows that something’s shifted inside of him.


	7. Chapter 7

A lot of CVs and four job interviews later, Clara’s finds herself with a job in a bookshop, and she, Amy, Rory and John celebrate it with champagne on the balcony of their flat. The flat is looking more and more like an actual flat rather than a dumping ground for every day that passes, and Clara’s unpacked most of her stuff. The streets of the city still feel foreign to her, and she still wakes up with a lingering sadness in her heart from dreams about Leadworth, but she’s slowly beginning to learn the way to the closest Tesco and is getting used to taking the tube everywhere.

   Sometimes, for short moments, she even feels like she’s a little bit in love with the city, especially with how nobody knows who she is or cares about her life story there. It’s the complete opposite to Leadworth, where everyone knows everyone and are constantly gossip about each other. Here, she’s not Clara Oswald, the girl who lost her mum, the girl who snogged both boys and girls, the girl who always got perfect grades, the girl who ended up throwing away all of her dreams of travelling, the girl who never went to university even though she got into Oxford. Here, she’s an unwritten page, a story just about to be told.

   Her first day at work is a blur of instructions and new faces and names to remember, but she gets through it, smiling and nodding every once in a while. The second day is easier, since she’s prepared for what is waiting for her, but she’s still exhausted by one o’clock, when it’s time for her lunch break. One of her colleagues, Ace, joins her to a Prêt à Manger, and they spend the break getting to know each other. Ace is apparently only sixteen years old and has been expelled from the school she used to go to after blowing up its art room, but Clara can’t help but like her. Perhaps it is because she reminds Clara of herself, back when she was the same age. Well, apart from the blowing-up-the-art-room-stuff.

   Back in the bookshop, Clara gets placed behind the counter. It almost feels like home to her, as reminiscent as it is of working in the grocery store back in Leadworth, only that people are complaining to her about that you can get the books cheaper on Amazon rather than about expired special offers on fruit and vegetables.

   She’s just beginning to get into the routine when the door to the shop is opened by a familiar figure. He doesn’t seem to have brushed his hair or shaved, and is dressed in a black hoodie and the same holey jumper he wore the evening when they first met. He doesn’t notice her, but walks right past her to the bookshelves. Well, why should he? And she should be happy that he doesn’t, sure as hell not disappointed.

   “Is it going well?” Clara’s manager, Sarah Jane, asks her. She’s turned up from nowhere while Clara’s been distracted by the Doctor. “Anything you need help with?”

   Clara shakes her head with a polite smile on her lips, trying to catch a glimpse of the Doctor between the shelves.

   “Are you sure? You look a little ...”

   Clara forces herself to focus her gaze on Sarah Jane. “Sorry. It’s just been two intense days. Lots of new stuff to learn. But it’s fine. I’m fine.”

   Sarah Jane gives her an encouraging smile. “I’m glad to hear that. Just ask me for help if anything comes up, though, will you?”

   “Of course,” Clara promises her.

   The Doctor’s in the shop for ages, browsing through all of its different sections while Clara serves over a dozen other customers. When he finally turns up at the counter, it’s with his arms so full of books that it’s a miracle that he hasn’t dropped any of them.

   “You,” he exclaims at the sight of Clara, and she raises a hand in a sarcastic salute. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

   She resists the urge to roll her eyes at him, not wanting to cause any more drama than absolutely necessary, seeing as they’re in the middle of the shop. Not to mention that she doesn’t particularly want to be seen arguing with a customer during her first real workday there. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

   “You can’t work here,” the Doctor says, putting down the books on the counter. “This has been ...”

   “ _Really_?” Clara hisses under her breath, as quietly as possible so that no one else will hear it. “You genuinely, seriously think you can tell me where I’m allowed to work and where I’m not? Because let me tell you something: you don’t have anything  _at all_  to do with it, no matter who the bloody hell you might be.”

   The Doctor takes a trembling breath before he leans his hands against the counter and focuses his gaze on Clara, as if attempting to intimidate her. “Did you miss rule number one in customer service?”

   “I have no idea of what you’re talking about,” she tells him.

   He smiles devilishly at her. “The customer’s always right.”

   “Not if he’s telling me to quit my job because of his preferences concerning whom he is served by when he’s buying ridiculous amounts of books, then he isn’t.”

   “You don’t understand,” the Doctor says.

   “No, I don’t,” Clara says.

   “This has been my safe place ever since ... since a long time ago.”

   Clara grimaces, doing her best to ignore how uncomfortable his words make her feel. “I don’t really give a damn about your sob story, to be honest.”

   “Well,” he says, the look in his light blue eyes ice cold, “could you just hurry up with the books, then, so I can leave?”

   She nods, but as she goes through the books, mostly science fiction novels, she can’t help but open her mouth again. “So, you like reading, do you?”

   “I like anything that passes the time,” he says, his tone obviously intended to cut off the conversation before it leads anywhere else.

   “That’s just a rubbish excuse for pretending not to enjoy stuff, isn’t it?” Clara says. “Time passes even if you spend your days lying in a bed without doing anything. You don’t  _have_  to do anything. So that you choose to read obviously indicates that you get some kind of enjoyment from it, whether you want to admit it or not.”

   “Maybe you should just become a therapist instead of a bookseller.”

   “And maybe you should stop hating the world so much.”

   “And maybe you should stop thinking I care about anything you have to say.”

   “You don’t have to tell me that,” Clara says, “I already know you don’t.”

   “So why do you keep talking?”

   “Because you’re the one responsible for all of this, and now you just have to face the consequences.”

   “How much is it?” the Doctor asks her with a nod towards the books, completely ignoring her comment.

   “One hundred and sixty-two pounds,” she says, reaching for two plastic bags to put the books in.

   “I’m not going to stop coming here just because of you, you know,” the Doctor says as he pays for the books. “I haven’t bought books from anywhere else in twenty years and I’m not going to start now.”

   Clara gives him a venomous smile. “I guess I’ll be looking forward to seeing you again, then.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to continue this fic yet, but then ... the clip of Peter Capaldi playing the guitar happened.

“I see you’re wearing the coat we got you,” River greets the Doctor outside of the coffee shop where they’re having coffee together before she heads off to Egypt for some archaeological expedition.

   He grimaces, glancing down at the red velvet coat that River and Missy bought him for his birthday. He’s not going to admit how much it likes it to her, of course, but he knows that she knows, since he wouldn’t be wearing it otherwise. He’s hidden most of the horrendous pieces of clothing that she’s bought him throughout the years in the back of his wardrobe, after all.

   “So,” River says when they’ve sat down at a table on the second floor of the coffee shop, “have you seen Clara again?”

   The Doctor takes a sip of his coffee. “Is it any of your business?”

   River looks delighted. “You have!”

   “Not on purpose.”

   “What, you accidentally stumbled upon her again? That excuse will stop being believable pretty soon, you know. You’ll have to come up with something else for the next time.”

   “She’s gotten a job in _my_ bookshop,” the Doctor says, making an attempt at masking his bitterness, but failing miserably.

   A smile tugs at the corners of River’s lips. “Yeah, I’m sure she knew and did it just to annoy you.”

   The Doctor looks down at his coffee cup. “Sorry. I’m being stupid.”

   “You always are, sweetie.”

   “I can’t seem to talk to her without insulting her,” he admits, without feeling the need to clarify whom he’s talking about, since he’s sure River knows. “I hate how much she reminds me of ... you know who.”

   “It sucks, what happened,” River says, “but it’s been years since then, and you can’t spend the rest of your life being miserable because of it.”

   “It’s easy for you to say, isn’t it?” the Doctor snaps at her, his tone colder than intended. “You never even liked Oswin.”

   “I like Clara, though.”

   “You don’t know her.”

   “And you do?” River asks him, an eyebrow raised.

   “No,” the Doctor says, “and I don’t want to.”

   River tilts her head to the side. “Why are you so stubborn?”

   “Just forget her, okay? Nobody can replace Oswin in my life, and you of all people should realise that.”

   “I realise that she isn’t Oswin,” River says. “The question is if you do.”

   _Of course I do_ , the Doctor wants to tell her, but can he really claim that he’s given Clara an honest chance, when his view of her has been clouded by his memories of Oswin since the first time he met her?

 

 

 “Are you the band looking for a new guitarist?”

   John looked up from the piano, his gaze falling upon a woman in a tight, red dress, carrying a guitar that made her appear disproportionately tiny.

   “What, are you here to audition?” he asked her, returning his attention to the notes in front of him.

   “Auditions are for losers,” she said. “I’m here to make you beg me to be your new guitarist.”

   “Don’t worry,” John said, “nobody else has turned up, so as long as you can play the four different chords that feature in our songs, you’re welcome to join us.”

   “And where exactly are your band mates?” she asked him, settling down on the chair a couple of metres away from the piano. A scent of some flowery perfume hung in the air around her.

   John shrugged. “They gave up and went out for pizza. I thought about joining them, but I’m in the middle of writing a new song, so here I am.”

   The woman shot him a crooked smile. “Sing it to me.”

   “You’re the one who’s here to audition,” he said, emphasising the last word.

   “Funny,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I saw your band the other day, by the way. And let’s face it, you _need_ me. There’s nothing wrong with your songs, but you can’t play the guitar for shit.”

   “Yeah, that’s why we’re looking for a new guitarist. Now are you going to play anything for me or not?”

   She nodded towards the guitar. “What do you want me to play?”

   He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

   “Fine,” she said, clenching her fists and straightening her fingers a couple of times before placing them on the guitar strings. And then she started playing.

   She was totally showing off, playing some song with so many different chords and complicated twists and turns that John ended up staring blankly at her, but, well, she got her point across.

   “Yeah,” he admitted when a silence had fallen over the room again, “we need you.”

   “I write songs, too,” she said. “You know, if you’re interested.”

   “You don’t have to brag any more, the position’s already yours.”

   A smile spread across her face. “I’m just saying. You could do with some songs with, you know, melodies, rather than all that monotone shouting.”

   “We’re a punk band, not a pop group.”

   “Nonetheless, you’re never going to make it big if people can’t remember what any of your songs sound like.”

   “You’ve been our guitarist for, what, half a minute, and you’re already bossing me around?”

   Her smile grew wider. “Get used to it.”

   “Looking forward to it,” he said, the words falling from his lips before he’d had time to think them through.

 

 

The Doctor ends up in the bookshop that evening. There’s a new science fiction novel that he’s been dying to read, and he’s not going to let Clara stop him from buying it.

   He’s definitely not disappointed when he finds Ace behind the counter instead of Clara.

   “Let me guess,” she says when he steps in through the door to the bookshop, a smile on her lips and a book in a hand, “you’re looking for a copy of The Curse of Fenric.”

   He grabs the book and flicks through its pages carefully. “Am I really that predictable?”

   “You’ve got a new coat,” Ace notes. “I like it. Very dapper.”

   The Doctor shrugs. “Yeah, whatever. Do you have any other books to recommend me?”

   “We got some new horror novels the other day, if that’s something you’re interested in. I could ask Clara to show you them ...”

   “Clara?” the Doctor echoes.

   “Oh, I don’t know if you’ve met her yet,” Ace says. “She just started working here. Anyway, you’ll like her.” She leans over the counter, looking for Clara between the shelves. “Clara! Do you have a minute?”

   The Doctor does his best to look indifferent, even though indifferent is the last word he would describe himself with in that moment.

   “ _You_ ,” is the first thing Clara says when she’s taken the sight of him in.

   “Yeah, this is the Doctor,” Ace says, apparently of the belief that Clara recognises him from Kill the Moon. “He basically lives here, so get used to seeing him around.”

   “We’ve met,” Clara says, her tone not revealing anything at all about the nature of their relationship so far.

   Ace casts a glance at the Doctor. “I didn’t realise ...”

   “It’s fine,” the Doctor says, placing The Curse of Fenric on the counter, “forget about the horror novels, I’ll just buy this one.”

   “Don’t be ridiculous,” Clara says, “I’ll show you the novels.” She gives his coat a quizzical look. “There’s one about vampires that I’m sure you’ll love.”

   The Doctor sighs, but follows her through the bookshop, his boots heavy against the floor. “You can stop pretending now,” he tells her when they reach the shelves with supernatural fiction. “And anyway, that was completely unnecessary, since we both know we don’t like each other.”

   Clara rolls her eyes at him. “I’m not going to let anyone who works here know that I don’t get on with their favourite customer.”

   The Doctor leans against the shelf, his gaze focused on her. “And for how long do you think you’ll be able to keep up the charade?”

   “For as long as I have to.”

   “Good luck with that.”

   “I’m serious,” she says. “I’m not going to let you fuck up this job for me.”

   “I wasn’t planning to.”

   “I don’t believe you.”

   “You don’t have to,” he says. “So, have you found the book about vampires yet?”

   “Stop looking so goddamned smug,” she says. “I realise that everyone else here loves you, and trust me, I wouldn’t have applied for a job here if I’d known what I was getting myself into, but guess what? Now that I’ve got the job, I’m not giving it up for anything, so don’t you dare bring any of your bloody drama into this shop.”

   “Understood.”


	9. Chapter 9

Clara _swears_ the Doctor visits the bookshop every other day just to annoy her, undoubtedly trying to make her resign. That isn’t the worst part, though, but how all the others who work there are head over heels in love with him. Every time he enters the shop, they seem to enter some kind of collective trance, gushing over him like he’s some bloody ... well, rock star. For most of the time, he seems oblivious to it, treating them with his usual coolness, but occasionally, Clara catches him being exasperatingly charming, all smiles and easy-going banter. For some reason, he irritates her even more in those moments than when he’s being his usual grumpy self. Maybe because he never shows _her_ that side. Mainly, he just ignores her, which should feel like an improvement, but doesn’t, for some reason she can’t quite fathom.

   She rants about him to Amy on a weekly basis, until Amy starts rolling her eyes at her every time she brings up the subject, telling her that hate is too strong an emotion to waste on someone you don’t like. She also suggests that Clara should go out on a date to get her mind off the Doctor, and that’s how Clara ends up on a date with Danny, one of John’s friends from the university.

   He takes Clara to an Italian restaurant “with the best pasta in the city”, and even though Clara hasn’t tried pasta at any other restaurant there yet, she has to agree with him about that it’s delicious. He’s handsome, and nice, and sure, a little awkward, but it’s their first date, after all, so it’s understandable. They part without making plans for another date, but they exchange phone numbers and cheek kisses.

   When she’s on her way home from the date, John calls Clara and asks her to join him for a drink at the punk rock club. She agrees with a sigh after he’s promised her that the Doctor’s nowhere to be seen there.

   “So,” he greets her, a smile on his lips, “how was the date?” He’s sitting at the bar, already sipping on a glass of orange juice, wearing his usual tweed jacket. He and Clara have become good friends over the past few months, and she’s having trouble remembering what her life was like without him in it.

   “It was all right,” Clara says, sinking down onto the bar stool next to his.

   “Just ‘all right’?” John says, tilting his head to the side, his gaze focused on her. “That’s all you have to say?”

   Clara shrugs. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

   “No,” he says, his eyes widening. “No, don’t tell me it’s because of _him_.”

   Somehow, Clara knows whom he’s referring to even though he doesn’t mention his name. “Please, John, don’t be ridiculous.”

   “You’re clearly obsessed with him, though.”

   “I despise him.”

   “I don’t blame you for it, you know,” John says, ignoring her comment. “He’s _the Doctor_ , after all.”

   “I really don’t ...” Clara begins, but their conversation is interrupted by the bartender before she’s finished the sentence.

   “Are you going to order anything?”

   Clara glances at John’s glass, finally deciding that she’d rather not be the only one drinking. “Yeah, a glass of vanilla coke, please.”

   “You’re the one who told the Doctor to go fuck himself, aren’t you?” the bartender asks her as he pours her the cola.

   “Possibly,” Clara admits. “Am I really that memorable?”

   “Well, it wasn’t exactly a common occurrence, and you were just talking about him.”

   “You shouldn’t eavesdrop,” Clara says.

   “I’m a bartender,” he says. “It’s what I do. Don’t worry, though. I don’t gossip. God knows I wouldn’t be stuck here if I did, considering all the secrets I found out about the world’s hottest celebrities back in the days when this was the place to be. Ice?”

   “Yeah, sure.”

   “The Doctor really isn’t as terrible as he appears to be,” he continues. “He doesn’t talk to me about that time of his life, but he’s been through a lot. Fame changes you, you know, whether you’d like to admit it or not.”

   “Thought you said you didn’t gossip,” Clara says, taking the glass when he reaches it to her.

   “I’m not gossiping,” he says. “I’m apologising for what happened.”

   Clara shakes her head. “’He’s been through a lot’ isn’t an excuse for his behaviour.”

   “Don’t rely on him for the truth about anything,” a familiar raspy voice says from somewhere behind them, stealing all of their attention. “He’s a filthy liar.”

   “Damn right I am,” the bartender agrees. “This time I was telling the truth, though.”

   The Doctor swings a leg over the bar stool next to Clara’s, smiling devilishly as he turns around to face her. “Tell me, Clara Oswald, you’re not here to gather information about me behind my back, are you?”

   “Yeah, it was nice meeting you, too,” she says, emptying her glass and grabbing one of John’s arms, “but I think I need to not be here anymore.”

   “Leaving so soon?” the bartender asks them.

   “Can’t let that happen,” the Doctor says, his tone half amused, half sarcastic. “I promise I’ll be on my best behaviour. I’ll even buy you a drink.”

   “Don’t bother,” Clara tells him, crossing the floor with John a couple of steps after her.

   “Are you out of your mind?” John asks her when they’re outside of the club, the cold autumn air biting Clara’s skin. “The Doctor just offered to buy you a drink, and you left?”

   “I did,” Clara says, pulling her coat tighter around her, “and don’t you fucking dare tell me that I shouldn’t have. He wasn’t even being sincere, he was just fucking with me.”

   “Or maybe, just maybe, you’re the one who’s overanalysing everything.”

   “He hates me. I hate him. There’s nothing to analyse.”

   “Why _do_ you hate him so much?”

   “Let’s see,” Clara says, “since we’ve met, he’s repeatedly patronised me, basically stalked me, and never been even remotely polite to me.”

   “And you?” John asks. “Have you made an effort to be polite to him?”

   “Oh, sod off.”

   “Do me a favour,” John says. “Go back. Have a drink with him. If you’re still of the same opinion afterwards, I promise I’ll never bother you about him again.”

   Clara stares at him in utter disbelief for a moment. “Seriously?”

   “Seriously.”

   “Fine,” she says. “I’ll go back, and I’ll suffer through half an hour of him insulting me, and then you’ll admit that you were wrong, and never, ever talk to me about him again.”


	10. Chapter 10

There were lots of things in the Doctor’s life that he didn’t expect to happen. He didn’t expect his band to reach the level of success that they did. He didn’t expect Oswin to come into his life like a meteor shower, lighting up his entire world, just to disappear as quickly. He didn’t expect ending up like he did. He _certainly_ didn’t expect Clara to return to the punk rock club, jumping up on the bar stool next to his, telling him to “go on, order that drink you promised me”.

   For a moment he just stares at her, flabbergasted, and she looks back at him like he’s something that’s just crawled out from the gutter. “What do you drink?” he finally asks her, doing his best to sound polite, but he isn’t sure if he’s succeeding.

   “Surprise me,” she says, a challenge in her tone.

   “Give her a whiskey sour,” the Doctor tells Jamie.

   Clara raises an eyebrow. “Really? That’s the best you can do?”

   “Don’t say anything until you’ve tasted Jamie’s version.”

   Jamie laughs behind the counter. “He’s been drinking them for thirty years now.”

   “So,” the Doctor says while Jamie mixes the drink for Clara, “I thought you needed to ‘not be here anymore’.”

   Clara grimaces. “I’m not here because I want to be here, I’m here because John forced me to take you up on the offer.”

   “Your friend, I assume.”

   “Well, ‘friend’. I’m seriously considering ditching him after tonight.”

   “Why?” the Doctor asks her.

   “Why am I considering ditching him?”

   “Why did he force you to return?”

   Clara leans her elbows against the bar counter, burying her face in her hands. “Long story. He thinks my hatred for you is irrational.”

   “Is it?”

   “No.” She hesitates for a second before continuing. “And this doesn’t mean that I don’t. Hate you, that is.”

   The Doctor taps his fingertips against the counter. “Well, I’m glad that we cleared that up.”

   “You haven’t exactly given me any reasons not to.”

   “I’ve been perfectly polite for the past few weeks,” he protests, because it’s true, he has been making an effort to be nice to her. As long as he doesn’t look at her, or talk to her, or think about that she’s there, it isn’t too hard. It’s just that his heart does things, every time he catches glances of her from the corners of his eyes. For a second, he’s always thinks it’s Oswin, and when he remembers, something inside of him shatters.

   “You’ve been ignoring me,” Clara says.

   “I thought that was what you wanted.”

   “It was, yeah,” she says, “but you shine like the fucking sun every time you’re around the rest of the people in the shop, and then you barely acknowledge me.”

   “Am I interrupting something?” Jamie asks as he places the glass in front of Clara.

   “No,” Clara says, “go on, interrupt all you want.”

   “So, you two seem to have met each other several times, then?” Jamie asks them.

   “Might have,” the Doctor says, shooting him a cold look.

   “Something I should know about?”

   “No,” both of them tell him at once.

   Jamie looks half curious, half amused. “No need to sound so defensive, I was just asking. Who knows what I could have missed?”

   “Well, you haven’t missed anything,” the Doctor says. “At all.”

   “Exactly,” Clara says, and when they realise that they’ve just agreed on something for about the second time ever, they exchange half-smiles with each other, before both of them quickly look down at the surface of the counter.

   “Try the drink,” Jamie encourages Clara.

   She shrugs dramatically, and then she reaches for the glass to take a sip of it. At first the expression on her face is doubtful, but soon, she smiles. “Fuck, you’re right, it _is_ good.”

   The Doctor can’t help but grin.  “Thought I was going to offer you anything but the best?”

   “So, tell us about yourself,” Jamie says, nodding towards Clara, who’s emptying the glass at an alarming rate.

   “What would you like to know?”

   “Your name, for instance.”

   “Clara Oswald,” she says, and when the Doctor hears the first letters of her last name, his heart nearly stops, but he quickly forces himself to arrange his facial expression into a façade of unconcern. Oswin, Oswald, same difference. There’s nothing for him to freak out over.

   “And what are you doing here in London?” Jamie asks her.

   “She works in a bookshop,” the Doctor says, his voice only slightly shaky.

   Clara nods. “I moved here from Leadworth with a couple of friends a few months ago.”

   “You enjoying living here, then?”

   “To be honest, it still feels kind of surreal,” she says, “but yeah, I’m liking it more and more for every day.”

   Jamie makes a humming sound. “It’s a city that’s easy to fall in love with.”

   In the next moment, another customer turns up at the bar counter, and Jamie has to take his order, leaving the Doctor and Clara all by themselves.

   “Leadworth,” the Doctor finally says when the silence between them is growing too loud. “I’ve played there a couple of times.”

   “Right, ‘cause you were a _rock star_ ,” Clara says, uttering the last word with nothing but contempt in her tone.

   “It was hardly my fault,” he says, unsure of why he’s explaining himself to her. “I just liked writing lyrics and hanging out with my band mates.” _It was Oswin’s fault, it was all Oswin’s fault_.

   “Poor you.”

   “Fuck, Clara,” he retorts. “I’m trying here, okay?”

   She tilts her head to the side. “And are you trying because you want to try or because you feel like you have to?”

   Something about her question makes him understand why she’s behaving the way she is, because if there’s anything he knows, it’s how frustrating it can be when people aren’t genuine around you. “I don’t know,” he finally says, and it’s the truth.

   “Right,” she says. “Maybe get back to me when you’re sure, then.”

   For some reason he can’t quite fathom, he instinctively grabs her arm when she gets up from the bar stool. She shakes it, and he hastily lets go of it, embarrassed of himself.

   “Don’t act like you’re so innocent, when you’re the one telling me that you hate me,” he says, his tone more venomous than he intended it to be.

   “Shall we take this outside?” Clara says, and she’s clearly just being sarcastic, but he rises from his chair, gesturing towards the door. “Jesus,” Clara mutters under her breath, but she follows him through the club.

   Outside, the air is chilly, and it’s slowly getting dark. As soon as the Doctor turns around to face Clara, he wonders what the hell he’s gotten himself into. Then, her eyes glint, and there’s something about it that makes all of his insides turn over. A dark arousal, so primitive that he’s sure it’s just an instinct, but it’s fucking _hot_ , nonetheless. She glances over her shoulder, and then she pushes him up against a wall to one of the brick buildings in the alley, reaching up on her tiptoes and closing the last distance between them until her lips touch his.

   They kiss like it’s a fight and both of them are on the edge of losing. It’s desperate, with teeth colliding and both of them scraping each other’s skin with their nails. They leave bite marks on each other’s lips and the Doctor’s pretty sure he’s ruining all of Clara’s makeup. Both of them are breathing heavily, gasping for air in short bursts in between their kisses, but neither of them is willing to give up first.

   “I still fucking hate you,” Clara half whispers, half moans into his mouth.

   He cups his hands around her face and kisses her again in return, sucking almost violently on her bottom lip. She pulls him with her as she turns around until she is against the wall, and he gets the hint, lifting her up so that she can place her legs around his hips. He can feel a surge of arousal rushing through his stomach as she presses her hips against his, and he knows she notices, but she just keeps on kissing him.

   And perhaps, the Doctor thinks while she’s pulling at the collar of his shirt, perhaps this was exactly how it was always going to end.


End file.
